


Time May Change Me

by imkerfuffled



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Again could be gen or could be slash it's kind of ambiguous, Episode: s01e11 The Path of the Righteous, M/M, rated for brief language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:45:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imkerfuffled/pseuds/imkerfuffled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifteen years ago, if you told Wesley that he would be killed as the right hand man of a Hell’s Kitchen crime lord, he would have laughed in your face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time May Change Me

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I took the title for my angsty fic from a song in Shrek. Don't judge.

Fifteen years ago, if you were to ask Wesley how he thought he would die, he would have given you a funny look, the perfect blend of ‘why on earth would you ask that,’ and ‘you’re crazy,’ and he would wave it off. He would make a joke with an insincere smile, and his eyes would tell you to let it drop.

Ten years ago, if you asked him the same thing, he would have let out a bitter laugh and said, without hesitation, “This city will be the death of me.” His smirk would say it was a joke, but his eyes would hold desperation.

Five years ago, he would have said his job would kill him. He would still laugh it off as a joke, but something in the way his mouth tightened would say it was anything but that. There would be nothing in his eyes.

One year ago, he would have refused to answer. In his heart, he would know without a doubt that when death came for him, it would be in service of Wilson Fisk. And that knowledge would not bother him in the slightest.

Now, if you asked him how he thought he would die, he would say almost anything besides, ‘Karen Page.’ He would not think of “the nice blond lady with the big blue eyes:” the naïve girl who wanted to play at being a reporter. If he had to guess, he would say Nobu’s men, or the Ranskahovs’ gang would kill him as revenge against his employer.

* * *

 

Wesley may not be a particularly religious man, but he liked to believe, in his more fanciful moments, in some cosmic force interwoven into the very fabric of the universe, guiding people through their destinies. At times—after crashing in his employer’s penthouse at the end of a long day, where he could forget for a moment everything he despised about this city—he even allowed himself to believe it was benevolent.

Never again would he make that mistake.

The world had deemed it fitting to pile more and more disasters onto Wilson Fisk’s already heavy shoulders, and this might be the straw that broke the camel’s back. From the Russians, to Nobu, to the man in the mask, to the stress that came with the new media attention, to the whispered thoughts of mutiny coming from all sides, to Vanessa—god, _Vanessa._ Wesley had no doubts that if Vanessa died, it would kill Fisk too. He would not let himself imagine what might happen then.

Everything was falling apart around them, everything they had worked so hard and so long to achieve, crumbling in a matter of weeks, and Wesley prided himself in being able to keep a level head at all times, but this was too much. Too personal—to Fisk and, by extension, to Wesley, because any attack on his employer was an attack on himself as well.

He had never met a situation he could not control until now, and it terrified him that he allowed himself to be so affected by his employer’s pain. But he was in it for the long haul, no matter the cost. He had known that for almost four years now—had known that, despite everything, he had truly grown to love Wilson.

And then came the phone call.

Wesley knew what he had to do long before he hung up the phone. First Vanessa was poisoned, and now someone was questioning Wilson’s mother… This, he had to handle himself. Alone.

Because Fisk could never know. It would break him.

* * *

 

Fifteen years ago, if you told Wesley that he would be killed as the right hand man of a Hell’s Kitchen crime lord, he would have laughed in your face.

Ten years ago, he would have added that if he never made it out of that godforsaken city then he would deserve whatever was coming.

Five years ago, he would have looked you in the eyes and said, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

One year ago, he would have asked you with a smirk if that was meant to scare him.

Now, he would say he refused to die, not while he was still needed so badly.

* * *

 

Wesley never really liked guns. They were loud, and messy, and to be honest, he didn’t much care for all the blood.

He was, however, a big fan of irony.

* * *

 

Fifteen years ago, Wesley used to idly wonder what his last thoughts might be. It was never a very serious question then—merely a meeting of morbid humor and forward thinking —and most of his guesses were purely self-indulgent fantasies, along the lines of, ‘Gosh, I sure am glad I bought that fifth yacht before I kicked the bucket!’

Ten years ago, he stopped doing that. The result would have been too depressing to bear.

Five years ago, if you were to ask him again to speculate after telling him the circumstances of his death, he would have put a good deal of money on his last thought being, ‘Fuck you, Wilson Fisk.’

That is not his last thought.

* * *

 

Now, he was staring down the barrel of his own, borrowed gun, facing the sum total of every mistake he made in the past few weeks.

He never should have brought the gun… but he needed a tangible threat to frighten her into obeying.

He never should have left it loaded… but he needed a backup plan in case she refused to listen.

He never should have placed in within her reach…

But Leland and Gao were right about love. It was distracting. It caused mistakes. It had no place in a world like theirs. And for those who forgot this, it would be their downfall.

He never should have underestimated Karen Page… But he cannot change the past any more than he can save Vanessa.

* * *

 

His last thought is not, ‘Fuck you, Wilson Fisk.’

As the first bullet tears through his flesh, the things running through his head are these: Shock. Pain. Adrenaline. Terror. Panic. Anger. Remorse. An indecipherable emotion that he can only describe as ‘NO.’

‘I can’t die now.’

‘He’s in danger.’

‘I should have told someone where I went.’

_‘I can’t die now. He’s in danger.’_

‘I don’t want him to see me like this.’

‘I never told him…’

…

‘Oh no.’

And as the final dregs of life drain from his body, his last thought is this:

_‘Oh god, this will destroy him.’_


End file.
